


Stray Dogs

by ModernDayNovocaine



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, I Don't Know How But They Found Me (Band), My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Fluff, Gun Violence, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Ryan deserves better, Serious Injuries, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-20 19:10:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17627996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ModernDayNovocaine/pseuds/ModernDayNovocaine
Summary: Ryan Ross is a lonely man who dreams of the stars, until he meets Brendon Urie. Together, the two of them take the music industry by storm. Stray Dogs is an emotional rollercoaster set in the 1950’s. Brendon, a crooner, meets Ryan one night by chance. Together they reach new highs and fall to new lows.My first published fic, tags will be added as I go.





	1. Introduction

I'm still drowning in the red red red blood when I close my eyes. I hear the gunshot on an endless loop, haunting me. He's still bleeding out in the street of my nightmares. I can't breathe as I get his blood all over my hands, begging God to let him live. I can't see through my tears, I'm choking on my grief. He's dying, right there in the middle of the street. In my hands. It wasn't a hate crime, it was a grab at fame, that's what they told us. Fuck that piece of shit. I watched the center of my universe bleed into a storm drain because someone shot him to get famous. Fuck that guy.

For all we've been through, I never thought that's how we would have ended. How we would die. Him first, as I screamed in the street for him to live. Me, an emotional wreck, exposing my soft underbelly to the world as my heart bled out in the street; desperate, terrified, alone. Him, holding my hand as his life boiled over. Me, being pulled off him as I went into shock. Him, rushed to the hospital where I couldn't see him. We weren't married, you see. Our ragtag band of misfits led by the unwed sinner/songwriters.

When the person you love is dying, you're dying too. Watching your own heart bleed out, beyond your control, is truly one of the most horrifying experiences you can live through. I wish it had been me, but I wouldn't be able to bear putting him through that day from where I sat. From where I stood. From where I watched both of us die a million times over. As we sat in the hospital, waiting, me covered in his blood, I wished it had been me. I wish we were married. I wish, I wish, I wish everything was different. I wish we never got anywhere, that we had dead end jobs doing pointless officework. I wish I was a secretary. I wish he was a teacher. I wish—

I wish I could be half the man he is. I wish he was alive.

And I wake up alone, sweating, crying, strangled by sheets. His name is on my lips as I untangle myself from the bed. Our apartment is silent and I see the blood on my hands again. I need a shower. I need to escape. I get up. Being naked and blind, I couldn't help but wonder if this is what the afterlife was. The sun shining through my curtains ruined the illusion of death, and I hated them for that.

On mornings like this, all I want is to feel closer to him. He isn't there, though. The only times he was still were in sleep and in death, which are supposed to be the same thing. I wish I could've married him. Instead I wash my hair alone in the dark. I still feel the blood on my hands and my face is wet before I turn the water on.


	2. Chapter 1

Seeing him for the first time was surreal.

He was a god on that stage, in front of the mostly drunk, mostly dead crowd. It was so late, the sun was rising. It was at 4AM, I remember that night well, at one of those joints that never closed its doors, when I first saw him. It was something of a tomb for the barely living. People that were rejected by society and life itself came there to waste away. Places like that where were I spent the hours between jobs. I couldn't make rent on the shittiest hovel in town, so back then, I slept in bars.

The god on stage was an aspiring musician who came along just a little too late. No one cared about crooners, rock'n'roll was just kicking off. Sex is more entertaining than love for the boring folks running the country. It's okay, though, I was late too. I was late with all of my songs written accidentally about him. Somehow, when we were both late, it felt like we were on time.

He's singing a Sinatra song, acting like he had the world with his perfect voice. I'm hiding in the corner, fighting off sleep so I can watch him. To be honest, it was a lot like dreaming anyways. So here I sit, writing about this god like stranger in a roundabout way. I'm blowing my last pennies at the bar so I can hear him sing. It's pathetic. He finishes his number and gets off the stage, exchanging a few words with the owner behind the bar. It was my first night at this joint in awhile. We didn't know each other then, but I'd seen him around.

As the god walks towards me, I hide myself in my words yet again. I have no money, no home and if the bar kicks me out I'm spending the night in a gutter. I look up when he sits down across from me. He looks at me like he knows my situation. He looks at me like we're in the same boat.

"Hey, I'm Brendon. You were at Warner's the other night, right?" He holds out his hand with an easy smile.

"Yeah," I say, shaking his hand, "I'm Ryan."

"Fantastic! Well, Ryan, it's nice to finally meet you after seeing you around town for so long."

"It's nice to meet you too. You're a pretty good singer."

He beams at me, like my opinion matters. He thanks me and buys me a drink. We talk and I find it hard to look at him. We talk and I find it hard to look away from him. We talk and then he asks me:

"So do you sing or play anything, Ryan?"

"I play guitar and piano. I'm not a good singer." I reply.

"Oh my God, you play piano? You have to play for me some time.” He smiles.

The stars and the sun are weeping at his smile. Its blinding brilliance put them to shame. I nod my head and hum in agreement. I've never been much for talking, let alone being the center of the man who could be God's attention. He's drowning me.

Pathetically in love with a stranger. My heart chokes on it's own regret.

That night we sat there for hours, talking about music, bullshit and everything in-between. He buys us more beer and I wake up a few hours later alone at the table. All that's left of Brendon is a note in my hand telling me to be at Warner's by midnight. It's signed 'Bren', The owner kicks me out and I begin my trek to work. The walk to work that morning wasn't as bad as it normally is. I had a meeting with God tonight. He wanted to see  _ me _ again.

Monday, 6-o'clock-in-the-morning, the first day of the rest of my life. I smell awful. Spencer is  _ pissed _ .

"You can't come in like this Ryan, you look like hell."

"When was the last time you had a full nights sleep, Ryan?"

"When was the last time you  _ bathed _ , Ryan?"

"You look like shit, Ryan."

"If you need help you know you can come to me, Ryan."

Sure, the only problem is how horrifically stubborn I am. Spencer is my brother and I love him more than anyone, but I can't be a burden. He has a wife, a child on the way. The last thing he needs is to worry about me. He barely makes enough money for his family as it is.

I do my job and I roll my eyes, "I was out at a bar last night. I fell asleep at the table so I never made it home. I'm fine, mom."

"You've been doing that a lot lately, Ry...don't turn into your--George." his voice is gentle, but the words still hurt.

"I will never be anything like him, Spencer. Leave it." I bite back, folding the pair of pants in my hands.

My job isn't as important as Spencer's, and I'm replaceable. I'm a tailor's assistant. It's really a position created out of pity. It's nearly impossible for me to hold a job. It's not my fault, people make assumptions about me. They put words into my mouth and make up stories around the way I 'act'. That's how I lost my apartment. That's why I live at bars. I finish for the day before packing up and heading to my next job. I clean dishes. I wait tables. I wait for my day to end. I wait for my life to start.

My friend Jon works uptown at some fancy rich people restaurant. I can't afford to get through the door as staff, let alone as a patron. He hands me a bag of scraps and rejected food that wasn't good enough for the rich people who eat there. It's good enough for me and every other stray dog on these streets. I give him as much as I can spare in exchange for his brown paper bag. You can make one of these brown paper bags last two whole days if you know what you're doing.

Warner's is kind of a massive shithole, far from anything remotely holy. I'm not there for very long when Brendon shows up. I'm sitting in the shittiest booth in the shittiest joint in town when God sits down next to me. Some people talk with their hands, he talks with his face. The way he smiles, the way he widens or narrows his eyes, they all tell a story that never pass his lips.

I'm still convinced most of his stories he told me those first few weeks of our acquaintanceship are bullshit. That being said; he'd swear up and down the continent that they are authentic. 

"No, really! I swear I actually met a man with four nipples in Texas!"

"And the woman from Prague? Who came from the future to meet  _ you _ ?"

"She really was a time traveler! She told me I'd meet you here and that we'd be famous and loved all the world over." Brendon was proud of this.

We never talked about anything serious. Just lighthearted surface level crap. But once, after a few drinks, he got real serious. His glowing, infectious happiness drained out of him and he looked into my eyes. He looks conflicted, he looks puzzled. I almost ask him what's wrong a dozen times before he finally says:

"I saw a dog today, eating out of the trash. It made me sad that it didn't have a home."

"There's a lot of strays in the city."

"I want to have all the money in the world and take every last one of them in." He's dead serious, "I'm going to become rich and famous and take care of every last dog on the street."

"Okay. Let me know if you find any hounds, I'll take one of them off your hands."

"Deal." He cheers up after that, and we go back to talking about bullshit.

We don't talk about our pasts, or our presents. Our conversations are harmless, meaningless. Just whatever stupid thing pops into our minds and whatever story Brendon feels like making up. We've come to an unspoken agreement that neither of us have a bed to sleep in, so we take turns sleeping until the clock strikes 3 and the bar closes.


	3. Chapter 3

       When the weekend hits, I bartend at a joint called  _ Perfume _ . It's a... _ special _ place. I work there Friday through Sunday and go back to my hellish existence Monday morning. Three nights a week I'm truly alive and more than a puppet strung up to labor for society until I break. The shadow world is where I feel the moonlight on my face and the beat of my heart. Even there, I can't bring myself to be me.

Due to the fact one of my few friends owns the place, I'm allowed to sleep in a booth the nights I work. My only friend in this shadow world gets paid to look pretty on stage. Most nights I think  _ Perfume _ is a portal to an unknown, alien, planet. She is dressed like a picture perfect American housewife, talking to one of the new performers. This is my world, a world where we shy away from the sunlight and bloom under flickering bulbs.

_ Perfume _ opens in an hour, long after all of the real American housewives tuck their children into bed and slip in next to their husbands. My fake housewife friend comes over with whiskey and a smoke. Her smile is irritatingly infectious.

"You need to either get your ass on this stage or get your ass laid. I can physically feel your bogus vibes from down the street."

"Just because you look like my mother doesn't mean you need to act like her too." I take a drag of my cigarette.

"Well if you really feel that way you can sleep on the streets. Cranky boys are too niche a market, honey." She smiles and pats my knee good-naturedly.

I take another drag and down the whiskey before handing the empty glass and still lit cigarette to her. Her fiancé lurks in the shadows by the door, waiting for the chaos to ensue. I'd like to say that I don't know what they see in this life, but that'd be a lie. Performing calls to me, but terror has me too tied up to respond.

Once the doors open, people trickle in; everyone the surface world rejected is more than welcome. The thing about this place is that it embraces rejected artists. It embraced me, with it's frozen time. One night stretches over three and makes everything bearable. There's something about the lack of censorship. Somehow, everyone knows all your secrets when you're a shadow like them. When you're that translucent, there's nothing for you to hide. Trying to lie makes you look dumb here. It's like coming up for air before having to dive back down into the lies of the world above.

Watching the women on stage is always interesting. The way their acts develop as they learn is mesmerizing. It's a learning experience for us all. To hide a purpose behind those catchy heels-boa-punchline combo is something I've never had an excuse to do. Honestly, I don't think I'd even want to. There's been multiple attempts over the years, to get me up there with them. In the end I don't have the guts. Or the balance.

The girls go on and off until the entertainment ends and the bar becomes just another bar. They scrub off their face as I mix more drinks. It isn't safe to walk home like that. When they come out they're all men again, and behind the bar slides my drag queen friend. I'm sure some of the people from the surface world would lose their minds if they ever saw how we lived.

"One of these days I'll get you on stage." My friend says.

"And then I'll freeze and it'll be the shittiest act of all time." I say, mopping up a spilled whiskey left behind by the women nearly fucking each other by the exit.

"Rossy, you'd be surprised how easy it is. You've built it up in your head as this great big thing, but it's really nothing! It's like smoking, and we all know you do that so well."

"You're right. Pretending to be a woman and smoking are exactly the same thing." I deadpan.

She smiles, I sigh. One day she'll get her way and we both know it. For now, we work in silence. When our eyes meet again, her smile doesn't quite reach them. She tells me we need to talk when the place clears out. When the rush dies down, she goes to change early. This is the first time I've ever seen her change before the bar's locked down. To call it unsettling isn't much of a stretch.

I work for hours, passing drinks out to teachers and doctors and lawyers and police and chefs. All of us are shadow people, when we surface we'll forget we've ever met. We're so willing to break the law with our neighbors, so long as it's under the light of the moon. Once the sun rises, so do our masks.

If I walk by the park on certain days, I might glimpse a picture perfect family. Some big shot executive with his trophy wife and their two beautiful children. He comes in every Friday night to buy drinks for the principal of his kids' elementary school. He tells his family it's a work thing, they have a standing reservation with the seedy motel up the block. The police officer in front of me turns a blind eye so he can keep sleeping with one of our girls, a construction worker who lives in the building across the street. I hear everything that comes past their drunken lips. I can't act disgusted when I understand it so well.

They leave in ones and twos and threes, into the night. The number of patrons goes down and down and down as Saturday comes. They trickle out until there's only a spattering left and it's 5 o'clock in the morning. My friend's fiancé doesn't let anyone else in as I start cleaning up. The second the last customer leaves, I want to sleep all day. But then my routine changes, because there's the tinkling ditzy bell of the door opening and the last two patrons are right in front of me. And then I'm wide awake as the sun leaks in through the door and I see Spencer and my friend sitting down as the last customers leave and the door gets locked behind them.

And I stare, because that's all I can think to do. I'm worn down, my brain feels like soup and my best friend, his fiancé and my brother just walked into a bar and this is the worst joke I've ever heard. Spencer avoids this part of town like the plague. He can deal with me just fine, but he's not keen on the whole drag queen thing. He doesn't know what my friend knows about my living situation and I'd give my life to keep it that way. And then I hear:

"Come sit down, Ryan." And my friend isn't smiling anymore.

Neither is anyone else. So I listen. I sit down, and they're all facing me. They're all looking at me. I feel like a child who's been caught red handed, and in a way I am. Spencer speaks first:

"Ryan, I went to your place the other day. The thing is, it's not your place anymore. You haven't lived there in three months?" He sounds hurt that I didn't tell him.

"So I came down to ask Gerard and Frank where you were living nowadays. Do you know what they told me? They said the hadn't a fucking  _ clue _ . They said you slept in here on the weekends after you shoveled out the drunks. What the fuck, Ryan." Spencer was livid, he reminded me of our mom.

"Look, Ry, you need to tell us what's up. You're just as much of a brother to me and Frankie as you are to Spencer. If you need help; fucking ask, okay?" my friend says, covering my hand with his. Everyone but Frank is staring right at me.

"What do you want to know? That I got kicked out of my apartment for being a faggot? That I lost my job at the library for the same reason? I can't ask you guys for help. I can take care of myself." I won't meet their eyes, I can feel their disappointment enveloping me.

"Then help us out, honey. We're all worried sick about you. Frankie and I have a couch with your name on it. It's not a forever thing, just until you find a new place. It'd really be doing us a favor. Spencer's got a baby on the way and a wife to worry about, he doesn't need to worry about where you're sleeping." Gerard takes both my hands this time, a cautiously optimistic expression adorning his features.

Spencer goes in for the kill: "Exactly! What if there's a family emergency? What if something happens? I wouldn't be able to find you when you're spending the nights God knows where. It would put my mind at ease knowing you're staying with friends. Knowing that I could find you."

They look at me, I sigh in defeat. "I can't pay you back with cash because I don't make shit, so you better let me do all your housework."

Gerard falls over the table to envelope me in a monstrous hug, Spencer deflates in a tired yet relieved way, and Frank gives me two thumbs up and a crooked grin. We all know this is the most my pride will allow. Soon enough I'll be in a new apartment for a few weeks before I get kicked out again, but for now we celebrate the temporary win with well meaning smiles. Underneath it all, Spencer is still mad and worried. Underneath it all, Gerard is still disappointed and confused. Underneath it all, I'm tired of living with one foot in two worlds. I won't admit that I'm looking forward to trading in park benches for their couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited by @trjangles on twitter!  
> Thank you for all of your help! I wouldn't have been able to do this without you <3  
> See any errors? Want to express an opinion? Leave a comment!

**Author's Note:**

> Edited by @trjangles on twitter!  
> Thank you for all of your help! I wouldn't have been able to do this without you <3
> 
> See any errors? Want to express an opinion? Leave a comment!


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